That One Time, With That Thing
by LithiumDoll
Summary: Pre-series, /those/ bonds: Neal's accidentally working for the mob, Kate is probably considering a new client list, Mozzie's waiting for The Man and The Man is a little more amused than it should be -- NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

"I hear Brazil is nice this time of year."

Neal slowly tore his attention away from the _beautiful_ pieces of work – no, _art_ - in front of him and looked up. "Really?"

"Of course not." Mozzie bit happily into his bagel and spoke around a mouthful of lettuce and cheese. "Brazil has That Thing."

"I thought we don't talk about, you know: That Thing."

"_Exactly_," Mozzie said, and spared a dark look for the door before hunching protectively around the remains of his bagel.

Neal stared at him blankly. "I'm … really not following."

Mozzie made his way around the table to look at the bonds from a safe, mayo-free distance. "You know they're surrounding the building, right? There's going to be sirens and yelling and guns, and you know I hate sirens. Also yelling. And guns."

Neal rolled his eyes and went back to staring at the bonds. "They aren't surrounding the building, Moz. We'll be out of here tomorrow. We're _fine_."

"_I'm_ fine. I'm just the neighbor - an innocent bystander, if you will, who will be _aghast_ because that young couple always seemed so nice.

"You, on the other hand, probably already have Agent Burke pawing through your hotel room." He leaned further over Neal's shoulder and appraised the bonds. "Your work has such depth. I've always been very impressed with your commitment to the inking."

"Well, _thank_ you, Moz." Neal put a few more kilowatts into his smile, which Mozzie liked to think he was largely immune to. Largely.

He sniffed, just to prove it. "Even if that shade of blue is practically a signature. At least it isn't actually a signature." He stared down at Neal's suddenly blank expression. "It isn't actually a signature, right?"

"Yeah, about that-" Neal shifted uncomfortably in his seat and let his eyes stray back to the seal.

Mozzie held Neal's piece of scored glass over his eye and turned the light onto the bonds. "You really did it."

Neal grinned and held one up for inspection; Mozzie squinted and there, tucked against the inside of the seal, a tiny set of initials glimmered. He couldn't help it: he whistled his appreciation. "Nice. Very, very nice. And when they arrest you, you can claim insanity, because only a crazy person would do that."

"Don't you get tired of never signing your own name?"

"No," Mozzie replied promptly and set the polarizing glass back on the workbench. "I've never signed my own name; it's a point of pride."

Neal spun his chair around, bonds momentarily forgotten. "Never?"

"Never." Mozzie drew himself up proudly. "The first words I wrote were an alias."

"So you had an alias at, what, four?"

"Three. Doesn't everyone?"

Neal shrugged equanimously and Mozzie went on more softly, now he actually had the kid's attention. "You know they'll figure this out."

"They won't. Burke probably will." Neal's mouth curled into an almost fondly wry smile. "I don't like this job. If he doesn't figure it out, maybe we can help a little. Once we're out of the country. He can track the bonds with the signature and put these guys away. And next time, Moz? Don't bring me work from the Mafia."

"I didn't, I brought you work from McManus, it's not my fault if he didn't choose to divulge some of the details."

Neal scowled. "The _Mafia_."

Mozzie held up a hand. "Technically, they aren't the Mafia, they're the mob. The Cosa Nostra is very picky about-" He stopped speaking under Neal's glare and then shrugged. "Fine. So, we're back to Brazil."

Neal nodded and began to slide the bonds into their folder. "But not until Kate gets here."

"Kate can catch up," Mozzie pointed out as he picked up his cooling cup of coffee.

"I'm not going to do that to her."

"Oh, sure, but you'll get me arrested."

"Hey, innocent bystander, remember?" Neal stood and stretched a couple hours of intensive loupe action away. "You can tell them I threatened your cat."

"I don't have a cat."

Neal grinned again. "Well, not _now_."


	2. Chapter 2

"Do they know we're watching them?"

Peter considered the single lit window in the second story of the warehouse; two silhouettes crossed back and forth and then it cleared again. He shook his head. "If Caffrey knew we were out here, we'd be eating pizza by now."

"Pizza? Really?" Jones smiled, but warily. He'd been on the job less than six weeks, but he was more than aware how easy a mark he was for the deadpan humor of the older agents.

"Really." Peter's mouth twisted crookedly as he tried to hide a smile behind disapproval and didn't quite manage. "Or coffee. Croissants. Depends on the time of day. He sent a salad once, but we think he was a little put out – he'd had to leave in kind of a hurry," he added with irony-laced sympathy.

Jones still wasn't sure whether he was glad or strangely disappointed to be in a department chasing criminals who were more likely retaliate with Ranch Light than shootouts.

"I don't get why we can't just take him in," he grumbled. "Shake the tree and see what falls out. We did it with that other guy, the one with the stamps. Renfro?"

"It's been tried, trust me. Renfro is small time; he'll always be small time. Caffrey's smart. He doesn't panic and he doesn't let anything slip, not unless he wants to." Peter frowned up at the warehouse. "And he knows how long it takes us to get a warrant, right down to the second. I don't know why he's still here."

He hadn't thought the faint prick of unease – worry, even – had shown, but Jones looked at him like a question had just been answered. Maybe the wrong answer, almost certainly the wrong question.

"He isn't following the script," Peter explained. "Not a good sign."

"You're worried about him -- Caffrey," Jones said, as if that was perfectly normal.

Peter made a non-committal sound, and then raised his hands an inch off the wheel before he dropped them heavily. "Caffrey. Moreau too. They're like kids playing ball on the freeway. It's just a matter of time, especially if they're working for the damn _Mafia_."

Jones had to concede that one; white-collar criminals didn't tend to be violent, but some of the people they worked for really did. "So, we're going to follow him?"

"Whatever they're doing, they're doing inside that building. We're going to let them know we're watching and see what happens next."

Jones tried to follow the logic and failed, so he asked, "But if we follow him we get the buyer, right?"

"We get nothing. Trust me." Peter's mouth twisted again, this time with three years worth of frustration. "Everything is couriered through third parties, fourth parties. Even if we could get a warrant to look at the packages in time, there are dummy runs." He shook his head emphatically. "No, I want to see what he does when he can't get the goods out at all, and if that means sitting on the building for a week, we sit on the building for a week."

Jones took a moment to picture what a week's worth of stake out in the sedan would look like and tried not to shudder. Well, Peter had brought him along because he'd actually made a suggestion, rather than nodding along with the rest of the probationary agents, so maybe it was worth making another one. "How about getting the address blacklisted with the courier companies?"

He shifted uncomfortably as Peter just stared at him. "Okay, never mind."

Peter grinned widely and clapped him on the shoulder. "Beautiful. Get on it – city, state, national, international. Bad credit will get it done. _Beautiful_," he repeated, like Jones had come up with a masterpiece.

Which, Jones guessed, explained kind of a lot. He couldn't help grinning as he reached inside his jacket for his cell. "Think Caffrey'll send us salad for that?"

"Without dressing," Peter nodded, not quite sadly. "Probably diet soda too."

Jones stopped dialing back to the department when the door of the warehouse opened and a short figure wrapped in a heavy coat, scarf and hat stepped out.

Peter reached for the camera and then drew his hand back; there was no shot there, unless the facial recognition software had developed the ability to recognise a particular knitting pattern.

"You're sure they don't know we're here?"

Wordlessly, Peter reached behind him and pulled a file from the pile in the back seat. He flipped through the papers and then passed it over.

Jones scanned through a series of surveillance photos that showed a short man who seemed to have the uncanny ability to be facing wherever the camera wasn't. There were even old stills from street cameras, but a high scarf and a hat pulled low had given nothing away.

"We're pretty sure his own mother couldn't ID him in his high school photo," Peter said as he took the file back.

"Yeah, I'm getting that. Neat trick. But we could -"

"We pull him in and Caffrey's gone. I want Caffrey. Moreau too, if we can get her."

"I thought she was just the girlfriend? You think she's actually involved?"

Peter snorted. "Trust me, Kate is no groupie."

The light on the second floor flicked off and sank the building into darkness, but in the streetlight Peter could just make out a figure in the window, framed by shadows. He resisted the urge to wave, but he couldn't swear Caffrey did the same.

Peter settled back in his seat as Jones resumed dialing the office. "Hope you like anchovies."


	3. Chapter 3

When his cell rang, Neal looked at the caller icon and considered not picking up, but only for a moment: it would only delay the inevitable. Maybe, if he was lucky, the Feds were already storming the building.

He flipped the case open and spoke quickly. "Hey, Moz. Listen-"

Mozzie rolled right over him. "So guess who I saw when I was leaving. What's your guess, Neal? Is it the Feds, Neal? Because it's the _Feds_, Neal."

Neal leaned back against the workbench and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Maybe we can skip the 'I told you so'? And stop saying my name, it's a little creepy."

"You always want to skip the 'I told you so.'" Mozzie pointed out in a kindly fashion that didn't quite dilute the acid in his tone. "That's why these situations keep happening."

"You sound like my teacher in third grade." Restless, Neal crossed back to the window and tried to make out the figures in the sedan down the block. "It's Burke?"

"Of course it's Burke, and another new guy. He goes through partners like Kate goes through hair dye."

"Wash in, wash out," Neal agreed, and then squinted as he tried to make out the new agent's face. Unfortunately, the most he could see from his current angle was a flash of white shirt in a passing car's headlights. "I didn't like the last one."

"That's because you need to stop judging people by their facial hair."

"There was no excuse for those sideburns. None." Neal turned and paced back across creaking floorboards to the other side of the room to reassure himself that he hadn't missed someone breaking down the door. "What if they'd caught up with me? I'd have been arrested by an Elvis impersonator - you don't live that kind of thing down, Moz."

"Says the guy wearing a porkpie hat," Mozzie pointed out, and didn't wait for the inevitable objection before he went on. "What's the plan?"

Neal crossed back over to the window and watched as Burke took the pizza box from the delivery guy. The agent shook his head at the window and then slipped back into the sedan.

After a moment, Neal drew back again. "Get Kate to tell Torrio the bonds are here and then give the Feds an anonymous tip he'll be coming to collect them?"

"That's not a plan," Mozzie answered after a few, silently thoughtful, seconds. "That's a suicide pact. I can see how you'd confuse the two."

Neal groaned and threw himself back onto the single, threadbare couch in the room. "Fine, call the couriers in the morning. Get six this time and send the bonds out with the first one. Go through Europe, Russia," he grinned, "and Brazil."

"Funny. Very funny." Mozzie hung up and Neal followed suit.

Boredom set in within seconds. It was tempting to go pay the Feds a visit; tempting in the same way the Louvre was tempting, or the Hope diamond was tempting; saying no to temptation was not, Neal had to admit, something he could count amongst his many talents.

Saying no was always so pointless. Life was short and there was so much to do and see and taste. Why spend the time you had saying no to _anything_, as long as it wasn't hurting anyone?

But, contrary to Mozzie's belief and, okay, possibly also his own history to date, he did have a sense of self-preservation. Regretfully, he had to concede that pizza delivery was probably about as far as he should push it, given his current employers.

He wondered if Burke knew about them and decided he probably did; Neal was three years and too many close calls to count past underestimating the man.

He wondered what he thought.

Somehow, he doubted Burke would consider it a good career move and, in fairness, Neal would have agreed.

The couch was some kind of medieval torture device, he decided. And, given the car still outside, apparently also his bed for the evening. He couldn't leave the bonds there unattended, and he wasn't going to try carrying them out.

Great.

He shifted and tried to find a marginally more comfortable spot – one where he wasn't being slowly impaled by a sharpened spring.

Seriously, what would happen if he just hung around the front door? It wasn't like the Feds could come in without a warrant and he did need to make sure Peter's new partner was someone he could be seen being arrested by.

Really, if you looked at it like that, it was practically a necessity.

The cell rang, Mozzie again. It might have been Neal's imagination, but the little gnome icon he'd associated with the number seemed to be glaring at him.

He flipped the cover. "What?"

"Don't even think about it."

Neal adopted an innocent expression and hoped it would transfer into his tone. "Think about what?"

"Yeah, right. I told you, you don't pitch right for a phone con. If you're bored, go read a book. I left some great ones there - I particularly recommend _On the Yard_. It's about life in prison."

Neal shook his head, but settled back on the couch again. "Subtle."

"I'll be back in a few hours, go practice your pitch."

Neal hung up first.

-o-

A few hours later, Jones sat up straighter in his seat. "Mystery man's back again."

Peter leaned forward and squinted, then took the camera from Jones and looked through the viewfinder. "Is that … is that a cat?"

Jones looked askance. "What kind of criminal master plan uses a cat?"

"I have no idea," Peter murmured, just as mystified. Honestly, he was kind of looking forward to finding out.


	4. Chapter 4

A puddle of Persian Blue with a terminally self-satisfied expression reclined in Mozzie's arms, purring deeply enough that Neal was sure he could feel the floorboards vibrating. He stared into its little yellow eyes and then looked up at its personal transportation. "You realise they won't believe I actually threatened your cat? And … where do you even _get_ a cat at nine o'clock at night?"

Mozzie shot him a flat look and then lowered the animal onto the couch, where it kneaded happily for a few moments before settling regally on the only pillow. "This is Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins – no relation. I've been feeding him while Mrs. Henderson is on vacation. Mrs. Henderson? The one with that thing in her-"

"Right, right." Neal waved the impending reminder off - he knew all he'd ever need to know about Mrs. Henderson's thing. "Vacation, huh? Good for her." Neal shot another look at the cat and then tried for a reasonable, enquiring tone; one which didn't suggest in any way that he thought the hamster of Mozzie's brain had fallen off its wheel. "And Mr. – _that_ – is here, because, why?"

"I thought you'd enjoy the company: you both have so much in common." Mozzie smiled thinly in the face of Neal's confusion. "You're both easily bored, you're both _really_ picky eaters … and neither of you can schedule a courier pick up from this location."

Mozzie dropped his suspiciously full-looking bag to the floor; it landed with a heavy thud. "We can't send the bonds out," he finished.

Neal smiled cautiously and hoped for a punch line. "Out … tonight? Out tomorrow?"

"I called local, national and international, they all declined to collect from this address. One hung up on me - very rude. And, you know, I have to say this is typical of the Feds: turning the system on the little man, denying him access to basic human rights, like twenty-four hour courier services that don't ask questions."

Neal wandered back to the window; the sedan outside did look strangely smug. "That's … inconvenient."

Warming to his favorite subject, Mozzie raised a finger to stab at the air. "That's the _conspiracy_, my friend. If the Feds can put a blanket no collect on this street, what else do you think they can do? You believe me now?"

"I always believe you, Moz," Neal said as sincerely as possible, "but we still need a Plan B. Where are our exits?"

"Sewer access is too far away and going out the back puts us in that alley that opens just up from them. We can't get into our neighbors from out there either. Next time, we pick the location."

_Next time_, Neal privately agreed.

Next time they wouldn't use someone else's workspace just to maintain a cover and, next time, he wouldn't go along with Kate playing the shill, however much of a payout she thought she could get.

"I could smuggle the bonds out," he suggested, but without much enthusiasm.

"Risky. Very risky. Take a cab and you're a sitting duck. We're off the main pedestrian traffic route, so there's no way to blend into a crowd if you walk.

"I suppose you could pay some random person to pick up the bonds, but even assuming you could trust them, which you couldn't, anyone going in or out of here is suspect now. All Burke would have to do is claim he saw a gun, make a search and you're in cuffs before you can say 'wrongful arrest.'"

"He wouldn't do that," Neal said confidently, but the certainty diminished as Mozzie's eyebrows rose. "Probably," he amended. "He probably wouldn't do that. Okay, what if we both go out? They'll follow me, so you take the bonds."

"You know how I've never been arrested? By not doing anything that stupid," Mozzie said irritably as he flipped open his bag.

"Tetchy," Neal returned mildly as he inched closer and tried to get a look inside.

Mysterious items appeared and disappeared and he watched, mesmerized. Normally the inside of the bag was off-limits and Neal had a healthy respect for Mozzie's idea of vengeance - he wasn't going to go where he wasn't invited. Right now, the contents mostly seemed to involve cat toys and some kibble. So that was a little disappointing.

He pulled off his hat and spun it between his fingers until the ribbon was a dark blue blur. "How about something like we pulled in Atlanta? With the van and the manhole cover?"

"Burke won't fall for that twice." Mozzie poured a carefully exact amount of the dry food into his palm; Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins rose majestically to his feet and padded over like he was doing them a favor.

Neal had forgotten how much he liked cats.

"Yeah, actually I'm a little surprised he fell for it the first time," he said and grinned nostalgically at the memory; the grin faded as he remembered the business at hand. "Send the bonds out with the trash, steal them back later?"

He sent the hat tumbling down his outstretched arm and then caught it by the brim as he gave Mozzie a winning smile. "It's a classic."

Mozzie stared up at him and said nothing; Neal suspected an idea was probably pretty bad when it wasn't even worth dignifying with an insult.

"Yeah, never mind." He slipped the hat back onto his head and saw the faint glimmer of a better plan. "How about a theft? We don't have to actually do it, just put the word out and let them worry about that while we put things here to bed. What's in town right now?"

"Like you don't know." Mozzie began ticking off the paintings on his fingers anyway. "There's a Matisse, a Stieglitz, and a nice little Cezanne … but are you really sure you want to try and play Burke like this?"

No, not even a little bit, because _try_ would be the operative word. "Do you have another option?"

Mozzie pursed his lips and then shook his head.

Neal grinned and tried not to over-amp a facade of confidence right into panic. "How's your Russian?"

"Prekrasnah."

"Excellent."

"Exactly." Mozzie stood and brushed his hands free of stray crumbs. "I'll start putting the word out. Give it a couple of weeks to filter back to the Feds so they're not too suspicious about the timing. Hope Kate can swing that."

When Mozzie had left, Neal watched the cat disappear under the table and then dialed Kate's number.

The call was picked up on the second ring. "Caitlin Eloff."

She sounded singsong sweet and her accent was from a completely different continent, but it made him smile just hearing her voice. "Who's with you?"

"Oh, I'm just with some friends – you sound weird, is everything okay?"

"The bonds are finished, but we're being watched and we can't courier them out. We're going to try a diversion, but it could take a couple of weeks."

"Okay, okay – listen, don't panic. I'll – just wait a minute, I'll be right back." Kate sighed heavily and the earpiece scratched as – he guessed - she pretended to smother her cell with her palm. He could still hear as she explained to someone, "My sister's just walked out on her husband and, look, there's crying, it's crazy. I'll be right back, _bokkie_ - don't start without me, now."

He couldn't make out the actual words of the men responding, but the tone sounded amenable enough. A door closed and then the line cleared again. "I'm your sister?" he asked. "That's a little disturbing."

Kate sniffed delicately. "There are two things men don't want anything to do with, the second one is crying women."

Neal nodded, that was true for the most part. "What's the first one?"

"Remember when you just couldn't resist going through my purse?"

He remembered. Oh, he remembered. "Never mind."

"It's Burke?"

"Yeah, and with a new partner."

"What did you send them this time?" Kate asked with perfectly pitched resignation – just the right amount of fondness mixed with the concern.

Neal considered telling her how much he loved her, but it probably wasn't the right time. "Pizza," he confessed instead.

"We talked about this," she said more sharply. "You can't keep sending-"

"I know, I know, but I can't send salad again: he'll think I don't like him anymore."

"They're sitting in that car for hours every day," she scolded, fully committed now. "They need to eat healthily. Send a fruit basket. I know he followed you home, but you can only keep him if you look after him properly."

Kate broke first and giggled under her breath; Neal grinned and felt ten times better; she had the most infectious laugh he'd ever heard.

"You think you can sell them on a couple more weeks?" he asked when the giggles stopped. "Tell them McManus needs to get a part for the press or something."

"They're already pretty skittish that McManus dropped out of sight; they keep asking to see him."

Neal grimaced. "Well they can't see him, he's in Argentina or something. What are you telling them?"

"That he's reclusive, that genius has its own way of working. But they're already pushing, delaying again will only make them even more suspicious than they already are."

He frowned and cast a reproachful look out the window. "Can you walk? We'll figure something out when you're clear."

"No, we play this out," she said without hesitation. "We do it right and we're set for life."

"A really short life. I don't like this."

"We can't run, Neal. We run and we really are dead. Get the bonds, okay?"

"I miss you," he managed, just before she hung up.

Once he'd exhausted the possibilities of reading, card tricks and losing King of the Hill with the cat, there wasn't a lot to do except to try and sleep. He surrendered the spring-laden couch and stretched out on the floor with his hat drawn over his eyes and his hand resting on the cell phone.

It rang again an hour later, interrupting a light doze and waking Schmoo, who at some point had decided Neal's chest was the most comfortable place to be – or possibly just wanted to cement a victory. At least that explained why his dreams had felt strangely claustrophobic.

He tried to shove the cat away, but gave up when claws extended into his shirt and pricked at his skin.

With a glare in the face of its calm tranquility, he checked the caller ID and then flipped the cell open. "Did they agree?"

"Not entirely, Mr. Caffrey. We have business to conclude."

Neal pushed the cat away and sat up quickly. "I'm sorry," he said smoothly. "Who is this?"

"I think we're past introductions now, don't you? We know McManus brought you in to finish what he couldn't and we know you did. Let's move on."

Neal brought a knee up and draped his arm over it, hat in hand. He forced the assumed relaxation into his tone, kept it light and almost careless. "All right. So where's Kate?"

The man – Torrio, Neal guessed – didn't miss a beat. "That depends. Where's my package?"

"The package is ready, but the FBI is watching the building and they've blacklisted us with the courier firms."

"The price agreed included delivery." There was some murmuring in the background and then, "However, we are willing to renegotiate. Give us the location and we'll retrieve the package."

"How?"

"I really don't see how that concerns you. We get our merchandise and you get your partner. Or is it girlfriend?"

Neal ignored that and injected a note of persuasion into his tone. "This is blown, let it go – it's not worth it. Give me a month and you'll get what you want, no hassles."

"Into every life a little hassle must fall and I don't think Caitlin, or whoever she is, would enjoy our company for a whole month - it's wearing on her already."

Neal dug his nails into his palm and forced an indifferent smile. Expressions were the key – if the expression was right, the pitch would follow. "You're making a mistake, Torrio. But, whatever, it's your mistake to make. Send the girl back with the money, I'll leave the package in the warehouse."

There was a rustle and indistinct voices as Torrio conferred again; Neal closed his eyes and listened to the cat pick at the couch. The voice came back on the line, harder this time. "The girl comes with us to collect the package. When we have it, you get her and your money. Less our finders fee, of course, for taking care of your distribution problems."

Somehow, Neal had gone from doing a favor for a friend to planning the murder of at least two Federal agents. This really wasn't shaping up as one of his better schemes. He cleared his throat to let that cover for any tightness in his tone and suggested, "Tomorrow morning? Say, ten? If you're going to deal with the problem, I need time to make exit arrangements."

"Get them into the building, we'll take it from there." The cell went to dial tone and Neal went to the window; the sedan looked innocently back.

He quick-dialed Mozzie without looking; there was something to be said for muscle memory. "We have a problem."

"Oh good, because I was just thinking I didn't have enough of those."

"Torrio figured it out."

"You think Kate told him?" Mozzie asked, carefully without inflection.

"Why would she do that?"

There was a pause and then, "Did you want a list?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "Let me rephrase: she didn't do that. Torrio's coming to the warehouse tomorrow morning, we have to get Burke and the other guy gone before ten or Torrio will do it his way.

"I figure, you could leave carrying a box, they follow you and I'll give Torrio the bonds and get Kate."

"The Feds won't fall for something like that and you know as well as I do Torrio isn't going to just let you two walk away with grateful thanks for a job well done."

Yeah, Neal did. "Push the Russian."

"It's too soon," Mozzie cautioned.

"I know. Do it." There was always that outside chance Burke had suffered a debilitating head injury since Neal had last seen him.


	5. Chapter 5

Jones tapped through his PDA and stopped with his finger hovering over a button. "Agent Burke?"

Peter lowered his coffee cup and looked over. "Uh huh?"

"Something's come down the wire, rumor about a theft being planned at the gallery. Russians, maybe."

Peter grinned. "That so? What do you think, Jones? Should we abandon our stakeout and immediately make haste to investigate?"

Jones looked thoughtfully at the window above and then picked up the last slice of cold pizza. "Yeah, after putting some uniforms on the street. And a couple of black and whites – maybe some police tape?"

"You'll go far, Agent Jones."

-o-

An hour later, Neal quick-dialed and spoke as soon as the line cleared. "Yeah, I don't think he went for it."

"Really?" Mozzie said flatly. "What gave you that idea? It's not like we're in the middle of our own crime scene. Oh. Wait."

Neal looked out the window at the suspicious number of yellow-vested workmen, randomly patrolling police officers, parked up black and whites and the phone repairman on the pole five feet away. He nodded to the man with a pleasant smile and then turned away. "It could be worse…"

"Worse? You made more cops! They brought tape." Neal heard a knocking sound down the line and Mozzie's strident tones muffled to a hiss. "And now they're outside my door. They are knocking on my door. I hope you're happy."

"They're at your place?" Neal frowned; he couldn't follow what Peter was thinking and that wasn't a position he wanted to be in. "What are they doing at your place?"

"Wait a moment, you can ask them when they seize my cell phone."

"I'll fix this," he promised, just as Mozzie hung up.

Neal stared blankly at the torn up walls for a long moment and tried to see a way to make the promise good. He couldn't abandon Kate and he couldn't give Torrio what he wanted; when you couldn't win the game, you had to change the rules.

He grabbed the box of bonds and locked it in the floor safe; it wasn't perfect but at least anyone poking around wouldn't be able to say they'd discovered the evidence in plain sight.

Then, he picked up the still sulking Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins and jogged lightly down the stairs.

He was less than ten feet out the door before a policeman dressed as a traffic warden bumped into him and inexpertly checked for – well, Neal wasn't entirely sure what they thought he was hiding: he'd left his coat off and he didn't have a bag.

Just a cat.

"Do you mind?" He tried to step around the man and found himself in a two-step dance with an officer in a yellow road worker vest. "Careful! Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins is delicate and easily distressed!"

Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins failed to look particularly delicate, or distressed, but he did seem enthralled by the street theatre that was taking place before him.

"Is this your cat?" the traffic warden asked.

"No," Neal said cheerfully. He waited a few seconds for the man's eyes to light up at the happy prospect of grand theft cat charges before he went on. "He's Mrs. Henderson's, from up the road? She's on vacation and he keeps getting out – maybe you could take him back? That's a cop thing, right?"

He thrust the cat towards the man, who backpedaled rapidly. "Hey!"

"Allergic?" Neal nodded sympathetically and dropped the cat into the arms of the road worker. Predictably, Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins began to take umbrage at the treatment and hissed as he extended his claws. By the time he was safely contained in a police cruiser, two policemen wore vividly red scratches on their hands and Neal was out of sight and without a tail.

-o-

Mozzie tugged his scarf higher and peered suspiciously through the inch-wide crack between the frame and the door that his chain allowed. Burke was in the background; the new guy was taking the lead. "You have a warrant?"

"You saying we _need_ a warrant?" Jones crossed his arms and tried to look intimidating in the face of what seemed to be talking knitwear. It was like threatening a Muppet.

"To enter a private domicile without due cause, yes," Mozzie said indistinctly, but firmly. He wasn't impressed - bigger men than Agent Jones had crossed their arms at him - but he made a mental note to assure Neal that the man at least had impeccably groomed facial hair.

Burke stepped forward with his hands in his pockets and a smile. "You know Neal Caffrey? Kate Moreau?" He asked, rather than demanded.

Mozzie rolled his eyes at the feeble tactics. "I have no idea who you're talking about. Please go away, I have to find Mr. SchmooDeFluffikins - the merciless domination of the Federal government puts him off his food."

He pushed the door closed, but wasn't quite fast enough to stop Burke wedging the toe of his shoe in the way.

"We're not going to let him make the delivery, Russian art thieves or no, and his employers aren't going to be happy." Peter softened his tone. "Do you really think that the time he has coming is going to be worse than what they'll do? Tell him to talk to us."

Mozzie kicked the shoe out of the jamb and slammed it shut.

Jones began walking, but Burke stood where he was and rocked gently on his heels while he waited.

The door opened a fraction and a muffled voice said, "You know what I heard?"

"Nope," Burke replied, popping the 'P' and not looking up.

"If you're looking for someone, you just wait in one place and chances are they'll come to you."

This time, Peter began walking when the door closed; he dug into in his pocket as his cell began to vibrate.

Jones waited for him to catch up and then fell into step beside him. "What did that even mean?"

Peter read the text and then snapped the cell shut again. "He thinks Caffrey will come to us. I'm heading back to the hotel; you can take the rest of the night. Do whatever. See some sights."

Jones considered the short list of locations that might constitute a 'sight' and shook his head. "I'm good, thanks. You really think he'll show?"

"Given he just got past the city's finest, I'm guessing he will. Apparently he was carrying an unexploded cat. Do me a favor? Ask a uniform to run it back here. I think we've found Mr. – _it_."


	6. Chapter 6

The light that seeped through the gap in the doorframe was Peter's first clue; the low hum of the television within the room was his second. Well, that and the room service tray sitting outside the door with neatly stacked dishes and the remains of a burger.

Peter pursed his lips and then looked over at Jones. "Remind me: they have to run before you're allowed to shoot them, right?"

"Yeah, the manual's pretty clear on that." Jones gestured vaguely at the door. "You want me in there?"

Peter waved him off. "No, I've got it. Good night, Jones. Good work today."

Jones grinned and headed into his own – mercifully dark and empty - room leaving Peter to glower at the door.

When the corridor was clear, Peter swiped the lock and pushed the door open. Neal looked up and then reached over with exaggeratedly slow care to mute the television.

Peter stood in the doorway for a moment and then closed the door behind him. Seated in the room's only chair, Neal kept his hands on the armrests and in plain sight.

His eyes were free to roam, though, and he was pleased to see that Peter looked better than he had the last time Neal had seen him: when the agent was pale and still limping from the hairline fracture he'd gotten jumping a roof.

Well, more _failing_ to jump a roof, which had hardly been Neal's fault. He'd sent a get well soon card anyway but, given the glare being leveled at him, he was kind of regretting it. He nodded politely anyway. "Hey, Peter."

"_Agent Burke_," Peter said pointedly.

"No, that's you." Neal smiled with bright helpfulness. "I'm Neal Caffrey, remember?" He waved a little.

Peter's jaw worked and Neal wasn't sure whether the man was fighting a smile or the impulse to reach for a gun; he also wasn't sure why he found provoking that expression quite as irresistible as he did.

Yeah, that probably wasn't healthy. Neal coughed and spoke quickly, "I hope Eliz – I mean, _Mrs. Burke_ is well?"

"She's good. She says, 'hi and thank you for the name of the florist.'" Peter had spent a couple of years passing messages between his wife and the case file she called "your other woman." Neal's notes were usually left at crime scenes, which was frankly embarrassing.

He slipped off his jacket and draped it over the end of the bed, acutely aware he was being closely watched. It was almost fun to keep Caffrey guessing when the other shoe would drop. "It's been a really long day. You want to tell me why you broke into my hotel room, so we can move right along to the part where I read you your rights?"

Caffrey held up a hand and adopted an expression so guileless that Peter was pretty sure he'd stolen it from a church. "I did not break in. The management here is very sympathetic to –"

"Yeah, I really don't care. What are you doing here?"

And there was the problem: Neal still didn't have a story – not one that would get him and Kate clear, keep the agents alive and maybe even get Torrio off his back. Unfortunately, inspiration hadn't struck and it didn't look like it was planning a last minute appearance.

Now Peter was just standing there smiling a little unnervingly and this was a terrible, terrible idea – Neal wasn't sure what he'd even been thinking.

He stood and began to edge his way towards the door. "I thought someone should welcome you to the neighborhood – there's a great sandwich place around the corner."

"Uh huh." Peter reached out and hooked his collar, then steered him to the wall. Neal let his arms be tapped up and held them there while he was lightly frisked. "I don't like guns."

Peter snorted. "And I don't like doing taxes."

Neal tried to look back. "So why do them?"

"Yeah, we're not even going to have that conversation. Sit." At a light pressure on his shoulder, Neal dropped back into the chair. Burke considered a moment and then added, "_Stay_."

Neal rolled his eyes and waited patiently while the room was given a fast search – for what, he couldn't begin to imagine. He opened his mouth and then shut it again when a warning finger came up.

When Peter reached for the room phone Neal was momentarily worried a team of people with a vested interested in seeing him behind bars were about to be summoned, but instead Peter reeled off a food order like he did it a lot, in a lot of cheap hotels that all had the same menus.

"I can recommend the cheeseburger and fries," Neal volunteered and then subsided back under the glare sent his way.

When Peter finished ordering, he pulled his tie to half-mast and said, "Where's Moreau, Neal?"

Neal shrugged. "Around?"

"Uh-huh. You want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not really." Neal smiled thinly. "How about a charmingly non-incriminating bedtime story?"

"Sure." Peter sat on his bed and made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. "You can start with this pair of con artists working for the mob."

Peter's eyes hardened and, irrationally, Neal wanted to defend himself – to make it clear he didn't know and by the time he did know, it was far too late.

He restricted himself to nodding ruefully. "So, our hero-"

"Uh-uh," Peter rejected. "Our antagonist, maybe."

"Our _protagonist_ takes over a job making … candy … because the previous candy-maker gets allergic to sugar."

"McManus couldn't do it," Peter translated. That explained part of this at least: no way Caffrey could resist the chance to show exactly what he could do. Fish had to swim, birds had to fly, Caffrey had to showboat. Sure, he probably did it to help a friend, but that vanity would have been whispering in one ear while Kate whispered in the other.

Neal stared at him with undisguised admiration. "I would really love to know how you figure out so much."

Peter smirked, despite the full confidence he was being played. "Keep talking."

"Okay, so the problem is, the buyer doesn't like taking candy from strangers and switching out candy-makers is … complicated."

"Suicidal," Peter translated again, this time with a hint of mockery.

Neal ignored him. "So the heroine of our story introduces herself as the first candy-maker's point of contact. She thinks it's the start of better things, but the job runs over time and the intrepid and valiant officers of the law-"

"We're called 'the good guys'. Go on."

"The _good guys_ are pretty close behind. Our protagonist can't stop the work because the buyer will be upset and he tends to illustrate his deep emotional pain with gunfire.

"Anyway, our protagonist finishes the job, but _the good guys_ have the place under surveillance and take it upon themselves to make the whole block a no-go area for candy shipments."

Peter beamed. "So far I'm only seeing this story having a happy ending. Thank you for the pizza, by the way."

"You're welcome. So, our her- _our protagonist_ comes up with a plan to get around that."

"Good for him." Peter widened his grin enough to show teeth. "Did the plan involve a mysterious Russian art thief, by any chance?"

"No." Neal smiled brightly. "Absolutely not. Anyway, before the plan can be implemented, the buyer finds out about the switch and now the heroine of our story is being held until the buyer gets his candy. As our protagonist can't get the candy out, the buyer … offers to … come to him."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Skip to the dramatic third act."

Neal looked away and abruptly dropped the fiction. "Tomorrow morning. I'm meant to let you into the warehouse, they'd show up and … they didn't sound that worried about what happened next."

"_Goddammit_, Neal." Peter thumped the mattress hard and stood.

Neal scrambled to his feet. "Hey, I didn't have to tell you about this."

Peter stared at him incredulously. "Yeah, _you did_. You don't get brownie points for not letting us get whacked by the Mafia."

"Apparently, technically, it's the mob."

"Shut up, Caffrey." Peter hung a hand behind his neck and tried to think. "Do you know where they are now?"

"No, but they have Kate, and she has her cell if you wanted to track her. Or, you could make a trap for them. That'd be a pretty big arrest, right?"

Peter stared again. "Are you _seriously_ trying to con me into helping you?"

"No. I -" Neal drew back uncertainly at the sudden vehemence. "I was just pointing out that -"

Peter saw the confusion as Caffrey searched blindly for the words he thought Peter wanted to hear. Kid didn't even begin to get it. "You were pointing out I could make an arrest and turn a blind eye while you and Kate ride into the sunset," he filled in almost patiently.

"Well, drive, I was thinking we'd drive. And probably around noon."

Peter shook his head and smiled. "No."

Neal blinked. "No?"

"Moreau can walk and so can the guy helping you, but you _don't_ walk, Caffrey. You're done."

"What if -" Neal started, but stuttered to a stop as Peter shook him by the shoulders.

Once, twice and then Peter let go before he was tempted to add a kick to the ass. "_Torrio_, Neal! What the hell were you thinking? And what happens next time? At this point, I'm arresting you for your own good. No, you know what? This isn't even an arrest anymore, this is _protective custody_."

Neal steadied himself and grit his teeth to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, "It wasn't my deal. I would _never_ - I was covering for a friend."

"Some _friend_, he left you between the mob and a hard place." Peter took in the stubborn glare and changed tack. "Fine, you tried to do a good thing. Kind of. I get it.

"Look, if I take you in now it's a reduced sentence, but if I catch up with you later – and I will – you're not getting a few years, you're coming out of jail an old man. Is that what you want?"

Neal's eyes flickered as he mentally ran through the rapidly shortening list of options. "If I say no, you'll still help Kate. You have to," he tried. "It's your job."

"True," Peter parried, "and then I'll arrest her. That's my job too."

"You've got nothing on her."

Peter shrugged. "I've got enough, and I'm pretty sure Torrio will be more than happy to fill in any blanks. How many years do you think she's looking at?"

Neal stared at him and saw no openings in his expression whatsoever, nothing for him to turn or talk around. "You wouldn't," he tried, but more weakly.

"She's as guilty as you," Peter parried again and pressed back, taking advantage of the uncertainty while he could. "Guiltier: I bet she knew it was the mob right from the beginning. _Kate_ does her homework."

"She didn't want to take the job, this isn't her fault," Neal said automatically, and couldn't read Peter's expression.

"This is the only deal I'm willing to make, Neal," Peter said quietly, but inexorably. "So you think about it. Think hard. Right now."

Peter watched the expressions flicker across Caffrey's face, but he didn't pay much attention to them – the kid was only trying to find one that would provoke a reaction and give him an opening, a fissure to attack.

In response, Peter kept his face calm and clear and gave nothing back at all.

When Caffrey finally hit frustration, Peter figured that was as honest as it was going to get.

"I don't have a choice," Caffrey said at last, bitterly amused and half-disbelieving; his eyes focused somewhere behind Peter as if he were still looking for an out.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to apologize for that?"

Unexpectedly, Caffrey laughed; short and defeated, but a laugh nonetheless. "No, but the winner does traditionally announce the checkmate. _Manners_."

Peter resisted the compulsion to smile; he'd gone too far to relent now. He scowled instead. "This wasn't a game between us."

"Yeah, it was." The storm passed and Caffrey grinned sunnily; he held up his hand, a gap between the thumb and forefinger. "Little bit."

Peter's mouth twitched; he _was_ supposed to be the honest one. "Little bit," he conceded.

The smile faded, but didn't disappear. "So what now?"

"We'll arrest you all and to make sure Torrio doesn't try any reprisals, we'll pin the tip on a mysterious Russian art thief. I wonder where he could possibly have come from?"

Neal scowled. "I realise it wasn't my best work, everyone has a bad day. Let it go."

"Sure, sure." Peter backed up and opened the door.

"You're just … letting me walk?" Neal asked warily.

Peter shook his head. "I'm letting you _out_, so I can enjoy my burger in peace. You're going nowhere, not without Kate. Better than a lo-jack. See you in the morning." He grinned. "Comrade."

"Nice," Caffrey glared as he slipped out the door. "And I lied about the burger."


	7. Chapter 7

It was too early for Torrio and Neal doubted Mozzie would be inclined to make an appearance (actually, he doubted Mozzie was still in the state), so he didn't bother to rise from the couch as the footsteps came up the stairs.

"Come in," he called when they reached the top landing.

Peter pushed open the door and looked with bright-eyed fascination around the room. "So this is where the magic happens, huh?"

Neal watched bemusedly as Peter - out of his suit and wearing just a sweatshirt and jeans - poked enthusiastically through the inks and plates on the workbench. "You're not going to find anything else incriminating there," he felt moved to point out.

Peter nodded distractedly. "Sure, I know. Hey," he held up an ink mixer and grinned. "Old school, I like it. Where are the bonds?"

Still not quite sure what to do with that much enthusiasm, Neal just nodded to the floor safe.

Peter's smiled widened. "Can I see them?"

Neal hesitated. "That depends. Can I be any more arrested?"

Peter shook his head. "You're about as arrested as you can get," he said surprisingly reassuringly.

Which, Neal felt, really just wasn't right, given the circumstances. He crossed the floor, knelt by the safe and spun the combination. "So what's the plan?"

"Jones is outside with the local LEOs. They'll wait until Torrio takes possession of the bonds and then come in. We just have to get to Kate and then keep our heads down.

"For the purposes of this sting, I'm your partner and we managed to send the Feds running in another direction. Chasing Russians or something."

Neal ignored that and handed up a couple of sheets; Peter took them as carefully as he would a piece of art. He turned back to the bench and found a loupe, almost picked it up and then hesitated. "May I?"

Now completely perplexed, Neal nodded his consent. "Knock yourself out."

Peter studied the bonds closely through the magnifier and then whistled softly through his teeth. "Nice. Very, very nice." He looked up and Neal would have sworn he was sincere. "How did you get around the color shifts?"

It turned out that the prospect of a potentially homicidal mob boss was actually less unnerving than Peter Burke showing an interest. "I'd tell you," Neal said finally, "but they'd throw me out of the Counterfeiter's Union. And they have a dinner and dance, so …"

"Sure, right." Peter shook his head as he examined the minutiae of the forgery. "McManus would never have been able to pull this off, what was he thinking?"

Neal shrugged; damned if he knew. "The money was good."

"Yeah, but you don't do it for the money. Especially not when it's the mob. He was Kate's friend, right?" Peter asked, not quite casually. "First, I mean."

Neal narrowed his eyes. "What are you trying to say?

Peter met his eyes impassively for a few seconds and then put the bonds back in the box. "Really nice work."

Neal turned and walked stiffly back to the window, ending the conversation. There were no cops in evidence on the street now, but then Peter wasn't trying to make a point anymore. Not that point, anyway.

A midnight blue BMW made its way slowly up the street and pulled up outside the warehouse. Two men with bad suits and worse haircuts got out of the car; they looked slowly around with their hands hovering over suspicious bulges in their jackets.

When they were satisfied, another, older man got out – this one impeccably dressed in dark gray Brioni, with a Rolex on his wrist and, Neal suspected, Berluti loafers to finish. He couldn't quite help but appreciate a man who would wear thousands of dollars to a hit.

Torrio – it _had_ to be Torrio - held his hand inside the car and helped the last passenger out.

She looked around her with a pensive expression and then up at the window. Neal almost thought he caught her eye.

He stepped back and turned around. "They're here."

_-o-_

While Neal played nice with Torrio, Peter watched Kate. Nothing in her expression had betrayed that she recognised him and, once Neal had made the fake introductions, she'd played along as smoothly as Peter had ever seen.

Either the possibility she was about to be arrested was the lesser of two evils when compared to the wrath of Torrio, or she thought she had a way out. He was kind of inclined to think it was the latter.

He edged closer to her while Torrio was running a layman's eye over the bonds and muttered, "Hello, Kate."

"Agent Burke." Her reply was so low, he barely heard it; he didn't see her lips move at all. He wondered if she practiced that.

"At least one of you can get it right. So who's idea was this, anyway?"

"Neal's," she said, knocking 'honest' right out of the park.

"Yeah," he nodded, disappointed but not surprised. "That's what he said."

She looked up at him and then began to move; carefully she edged around until she was _just_ in the peripheral vision of the man who was meant to be watching her, but well within reach of the various instruments on the table.

Peter saw her hand creep cautiously out and pick up a shard of metal, but he doubted anyone else did.

In his ear the bug crackled, before him Torrio straightened suddenly. "Your work is exquisite, and more than worth the price. I understand you have also done other … pieces."

Neal murmured something self-deprecating and Peter suspected it was less to do with humility – which was one of the few things Neal Caffrey had never, ever been accused of – and more to do with a deep and abiding desire not to incriminate himself further while the FBI were listening in. It would have been funnier if there weren't so many guns waiting to go off.

Torrio gestured and the second man picked the box of bonds up, over packed muscles good for something. Peter hoped - even in the face of experience - that would be it. That Torrio would go downstairs and be taken down without incident.

As if he'd read Peter's mind, Neal met his eyes and shook his head very slightly. It was never easy. Peter took his cue to move closer to the goon with the box.

"Well," Torrio began, "as much as it pains me, we do have one final transaction to complete."

The man next to Kate started to reach inside his jacket and then fell back with a yell as she struck out at his face with the stolen shard of jagged metal. He swung out blindly and she reeled backwards; Neal yelled her name.

Peter kicked out at the man with the box, who couldn't seem to decide between holding the bonds or holding his gun, and that really wasn't going to work out well for him. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Neal swing something at Torrio and then the world was narrow and busy for the thirty seconds it took Jones and his team to respond.

When it was over the room was clear, everyone was in cuffs, Kate was sobbing hysterically and Caffrey was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter had Jones send Torrio and his men out first and waited until they were well out of sight before he held up his wrists for Jones to unlock the cuffs.

"Caffrey ran," Jones said, as he handed back Peter's badge and gun.

"Of course he did." Peter smiled crookedly. "He won't have gone far, though - we've still got Moreau." He looked past Jones to where Kate sat side-on in the back of the sedan; an EMT crouched solicitously in front of her.

Her eyes were still swollen with tears and the bruise darkening on her cheek only added to the pitiful appearance. It would take some kind of monster not to feel for her and Peter waited for Jones' expression to soften with sympathy.

When it did he tried not to laugh, but not that hard.

Jones frowned, injured on the woman's behalf. "She's hurt."

"Sure," Peter nodded. "But she's still playing him. And you. Watch."

They watched until the EMT turned away, and then Jones saw it. Nothing so obvious as a smile or even a change of expression, but the dazed look leeched out of her eyes and was replaced with something brighter and harder; something waiting for its chance.

Jones understood Peter's unwilling admiration now. "Oh, she's good."

Peter nodded his heartfelt agreement. "She really is, so keep an eye on her."

"She's cuffed to the door," Jones pointed out.

"So?" Peter stared at him. "God only knows what she took off the guy while he was patching her up, or from the workroom. Lose her and we lose Caffrey."

"You really think he's out there?"

"He's out there," Peter nodded, never more certain of anything in his life. He cast a look back to Jones and then started walking down the street; when he saw movement in the alley he veered that way.

Caffrey was standing just inside the narrow lane; he backed up as Peter walked towards him.

Peter kept walking and Caffrey kept backing up until there was a fence behind him and five feet between them.

Then, Peter stopped. "We had a deal."

"We did. We do," Neal said almost offhandedly. "Can't blame a guy for trying, right?"

Peter doubted many people would have heard the tension strung tight under the words and for a moment he was tempted to press on it, just a little, just to see how much of what made up Moreau was in Caffrey too.

The moment passed.

"This isn't trying," he said lightly. "Trying, you'd be two states over already. Probably after stealing my car. Again."

Caffrey laughed scornfully and shuffled a couple of inches away from the fence. "Your car? Please, who'd steal that? More than once. Allegedly. Can I talk to Kate?"

Peter shook his head and stayed where he was. "I don't think that's a good idea. She almost certainly has lock picks and you have impulse control issues. She can come visit you. After."

Another measured half-step away from the fence and Caffrey said, "Come on, five minutes. What could we do in five minutes?"

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets took a step forward. "I don't know, Caffrey - that would kind of be the point."

"Sixty seconds."

"This is an arrest," Peter explained carefully, "not a negotiation. In case you weren't clear."

"It can't be both? You could-"

Peter tilted his head. "You really aren't used to people saying no to you, are you?"

Caffrey stopped, ambushed mid-sell. "What?"

"How many people have said no to you and really meant it? Or told you how it's going to go and followed through? How many consequences have there been?"

"Okay, thanks, Dr. Phil. I get it." Scowling, Caffrey backed up again.

This time, Peter followed. "No, you don't. If you got it, I wouldn't be arresting you." He reached out slowly enough that Neal barely flinched when Peter turned him around to face the fence.

Cuffing the first wrist was no problem; the second one slipped away at first touch of metal. Peter waited for a moment and then asked conversationally, "Want me to tell you how it's going to go?"

"Not really," Neal muttered.

"Tough. You're going to confess to the bonds, because you'd be an idiot not to. Factor in points for helping us and you're looking at six to eight, out in four with good behavior.

"And you're going to do the time, Neal, because four years is a steal and we both know how much that appeals to you."

"And Kate?"

"Kate will be waiting for you," Peter said flatly, and wished it wasn't true. He liked Caffrey and he liked Moreau, he really did, but they were the worst things that could possibly happen to each other. "She'll be fine," he added.

Caffrey stopped resisting abruptly; Peter shut the second cuff quickly and then tightened both.

"You're really going to let her go?" Caffrey's tone was intent.

"I told you I would." Peter pulled him around and then took out his phone; he held it between them as he dialed Jones. "She can walk," he said when the man answered.

Jones gave the affirmative and Peter led Caffrey to the mouth of the alley. They watched as Kate was uncuffed, her expression wary as she waited for the catch. Jones said something and raised his hand to point and she wasted no time hurrying away.

She didn't look back.

When she was out of sight, Peter put a hand on Neal's shoulder and shepherded him out into the street.

As they approached the huddle of patrol cars, Caffrey's shoulders dropped and his chin came up. He grinned wickedly at the first officer they passed and then looked back to Peter. "Aren't you going to read me my rights? Do I get a phone call? Hey, does that file in the cake thing ever work?"

Which of them Caffrey was trying to con Peter wasn't sure, but for once – just for once – he thought he could risk playing along. "That comes later, you get phone privileges if you behave, and only in the movies."

There were a couple of seconds of silence and then, "Are they going to make me wear orange? Because orange really isn't my color. I'm more of a spring."

"I'm sure you'll pull it off," Peter replied in measured tones.

"Is that the same suit you were wearing in Arizona?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Nothing."

Peter could suddenly see exactly what the drive back to New York was going to look like and he wasn't sure either of them was going to survive it.

"It's my suit," he said defensively.

"You say that like it's your only suit."

"I have two."

"Two." Caffrey repeated and sounded pained.

"There's nothing wrong with the suit."

"Arizona was three years ago, Peter."

"Agent Burke," Peter ground out.

"No, Neal Caffrey, we established that. And, you know, I can give you the names of a few tailors-"

Peter reached past him to open the sedan door. "Or not. And don't send them to my wife, either."

"At least she'd appreciate them. She liked the cards."

"Cards?" Peter paused half way to cushioning Caffrey's head as he put him in the car and glared down.

Neal slipped the rest of the way in to the patrol car himself and stared up innocently. "Cards? What cards?"

"Caffrey …"

When no answer was forthcoming, Peter slammed the door and turned away and then – and only then - did he let himself grin.

-o-

Five minutes later, he opened it to reclaim his wallet, key chain and cell phone.


End file.
